


hear the river say your name

by midnights



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: (everyone ends up ok tho), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Kissing, Major Character Injury, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Pre-Canon, Recovery, Smoking, they're dumb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:53:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28105041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnights/pseuds/midnights
Summary: figures, it would take a bullet to the gut for john to get his shit together.ft. aggressive smoking, pining, and cowboy fools
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 8
Kudos: 70





	hear the river say your name

**Author's Note:**

> i recently finished my second playthrough of rdr2 and have been working on this through most of it. i got 100% this time too!
> 
> john's about 20/21 in this, and all of the places (except new mexico obviously) are made up. also i didn't name john's horse cause we don't know any of his horses' names except old boy and rachel :(
> 
> title is from When the Night is Over by Lord Huron. 
> 
> anyway, enjoy!

Jesus Christ, Arthur looks too good like this. He's standing in his stirrups, turned backwards to face the lawmen pursuing then.

His hat's sideways and there's blood on his arm from a bullet graze, and Boadicea is panting and beginning to lather underneath him. There's money in his saddlebags and bright wildness in his blue eyes.

They've just hit a coach, some bigwig jeweler moving east to New Austin. They caught him in New Mexico, in a barren stretch of cholla forest. Val Verde, Hosea had called it. It ain't bad country, but the heat's been getting to him, a bit.

It's the four of them, Arthur, Dutch, Hosea, and John. Coaches are one of the few jobs John's always allowed to go on, aside from keeping lookout and hustling poker all the damn time. Well, they'll let him do the big jobs too, but not always. Tonight, it's got him feeling high, all giggly and breathless. His blood's rushing and pumping in his ears and he knows the camp will be in high spirits, tonight.

As long as they can rid themselves of this pack of lawmen.

John twists backward on his stallion, fires a few shots at the lawman closest to him. Misses.

"Hey, Marston, you wanna-" Arthur cuts off with a pained shout, and John twists forward again to see him jerk off of Boadicea like he's been punched.

Like he's been _shot_.

He feels panic, bright and hot, bubbling up, and he shoves it down.

John waits only to see that Arthur's eyes are still open before turning and focusing, until the world around him is grey and it's just him and his rifle, and then the nearest lawmen are all dead on the ground. Circles back, all but falls off his horse to kneel by Arthur's side.

The bullet went clean through his left shoulder, and it's a miracle it missed his goddamn heart.

He's panting and bleeding and he looks blearily up at John. There's a scrape on his cheek from where he hit the rough ground. Dutch and Hosea are there, too. Not off of their horses, but firing shots at the few remaining lawmen coming up at them. John hauls Arthur to his feet. "C'mon, gotta get you home."

"Arthur, are you alright?" Hosea's asking.

"We ain't got the time to _chat_ , gentlemen! We need to get Arthur back to camp and get him patched up!" Dutch shouts.

"I'm fi-"

"If you say you're fine I'll shoot ya again," John snaps. He hauls Arthur onto his stallion, climbs up behind him. Smart girl she is, Boadicea's already following when John takes off.

They make it back to their camp quickly. It's a small area, heavy with vegetation that mostly hides them from the road. John's horse picks his way through the cacti, and John hops off and leads Arthur and the horse towards his tent. Arthur's awake, and he looks pissed. John had thought he was quiet from blood loss, but it looks like he'd been seething in silence.

Beside them, Boadicea noses at Arthur's good shoulder worriedly. Arthur mumbles something to her that John can't hear.

When John hooks his hands under Arthur's shoulders and hauls him off his horse, Arthur growls, "I can walk by my damn self, John."

"No. You can't," John spits.

Across camp, Hosea is assembling the first aid kit. There's a hot poker in his hand, and John doesn't envy Arthur at all for what's about to happen. He sits Arthur down heavily on his cot.

Hosea cauterizes the wound.

It's a terrible thing to watch. Try as he might, John can't leave Arthur's side, so he has to watch him writhe and groan as his skin is burned closed. He's got a hand on each of Arthur's ankles to keep him from kicking, and he closes his eyes so he doesn't have to see the pained faces he makes. Still hears him, though.

Hell, he'd rather have taken the bullet himself than have to watch Arthur go through this. Arthur, strong, immovable Arthur, who can pick John up and carry him under his arm like he's still thirteen, who can heft two bucks over both shoulders like it's nothing, who can lay out even the brawniest of fools who looks at him wrong at a saloon. Now, he looks pained and frail.

When it's over, and Arthur's passed out on his cot, John sits on the grass next to him. He's snoring a bit.

Miss Grimshaw tasked him with staying with Arthur after Hosea was done patching him up. John's too old to play watchdog now, and Arthur's shoulder isn't bad enough that he needs to be watched in the first place, but John doesn't mind.

If he was just napping, John would jump at the opportunity to read his journal, to take a look at the words and pictures he holds so dear to himself and won't ever let John see. But it doesn't feel right, now. Not when Arthur's only just stopped hollering in pain.

So he sits in the grass next to him. For a while, he reads one of Hosea's books.

When he gets too bored, John leans back and rests his head on Arthur's thigh and falls asleep.

He wakes up to a hand on his shoulder. Arthur.

John turns quickly to look at him.

Arthur's looking at him, eyes sleepy and not very alert. It's dark outside now, but there's still a fire going across camp, the sound of a banjo traveling to John's ears. Bessie is singing along, her voice carrying with the music. Copper is nosing at an empty jar nearby, trying to get the last of the blackberry jam from the bottom.

Someone had lit a candle and left it on Arthur's side table. In the flickering light, John can still see the blue of Arthur's eyes.

"Got a drink?" he rasps.

John scrambles for the canteen of water at his feet and places it into Arthur's shaking hands. He resolutely does not track the drops that fall from Arthur's mouth and down the long column of his neck, nor does he watch his Adam's apple bob up and down as he drinks.

"How-" John's voice sounds funny, so he tries again. "How're you feelin'?"

Arthur moves his bad shoulder a small bit, then grunts and blinks slowly. "Like I'm gonna be outta commission for a while, goddammit. Where's Dutch?"

John doesn't like that Dutch is his first worry. Arthur's not asking if _he_ got hurt on the job. Not that John's clamoring for Arthur's worrying and attention. Of course not.

"Out, I s'pose. Givin' out some money from the job. 's with Hosea," John tells him.

No answer. John knows Arthur's pissed he isn't out riding with them, or at the saloon. If they'd thought Arthur was going to wake up this early, John's sure they would've stayed. But it wasn't a life-threatening bullet, and the job was pretty successful, other than Arthur getting shot. So Dutch and Hosea went to do Dutch and Hosea things: paying working girls for no reason at all, covering the meals of mothers and their children, and giving away most of the take.

"I told them we oughtta've brought you to a doctor. Get that shoulder fixed better than just Hosea's work," John grumbles.

"Hosea's perfectly capable, darlin'." Arthur gives him a sly smile.

He's repeating Hosea's words from earlier. Lovely Bessie had held Arthur's head while they'd cleaned the bullet hole, and she'd suggested taking him to a doctor, and Hosea had retorted with "I am perfectly capable, darling." John hadn't realized Arthur'd been conscious enough to hear that conversation.

Still. The endearment is a little jarring.

"Didn't know you was awake for that." John scratches at the back of his neck.

"Unfortunately I was awake for all of it, Johnny boy."

"Want the morphine?" John asks, changing the subject. "Hosea left some in case you needed it."

Arthur's nose wrinkles. It's stupidly endearing. "Nah. I'll take some whiskey, if you're offerin'."

John chuffs a laugh and gets to his feet. "Wasn't, but I'll get it anyway. I'm real nice like that."

"I ain't ever seen you be nice, Marston. Think it'd kill ya if you tried," Arthur calls after him.

John returns with the whiskey (after arguing with Bill for it) and finds Bessie has taken his place at Arthur's side. With steady hands, she's wiping Arthur's face down with a cloth. Arthur's giving her an indulgent smile, rolling his eyes at her. He looks handsome, even now while recovering from a bullet through the shoulder, and John is in love with him.

Bessie bids them goodnight and whisks off to bed.

When Arthur says he isn't going to be able to sleep for a while, John fetches a deck of cards and they play for pennies by the candlelight. The whiskey passes between them, still wet from Arthur's lips every time John takes a pull. It's not good whiskey, but the company makes it better, somehow.

John cheats and cleans Arthur out. "You're too damn good. I certainly didn't teach ya to be this damn good at cards."

"Dutch says it's a gift, y'know," John gloats. He's a little drunk. "What's your gift, again?"

"Layin' out fools who brag about their _gifts_ ," Arthur grumbles. That makes John laugh, loud, and suddenly there's a hand on his mouth and he's being shushed. "Wanna wake up the whole camp, Marston? Christ, you're a messy drunk."

"Ain't drunk, asshole." John pushes Arthur's hand away. "'sides, do you really wanna admit you just lost cards to a drunk fella?"

A coyote barks somewhere nearby. Both of their heads snap towards the direction of the sound. John's technically on guard duty tonight, so he grabs his rifle and scares the thing off before it can get the horses all riled up.

"How's Bo'?" Arthur asks when he returns.

"Aw, she's fine. Prob'ly worryin' about you like you're worryin' about her." John slumps on the ground beside Arthur again.

"Well, 'least _someone's_ worryin'," Arthur says, and John can hear the smirk in his stupid voice.

"Bessie was here not ten minutes ago, fussin' over you. Don't you start to fuss just cause Dutch ain't here to apologize for you gettin' hurt," John snaps. Arthur's annoying him. "And if you wanna act like I ain't been sittin' on my ass with you since you got hurt, then I'll _actually_ go keep watch for coyotes. Like I'm _s'posed_ to."

Arthur's hand is on the back of his neck. Warm. "Aw, c'mon, John. 'm just jokin'."

"You're a real riot," John grumbles. He snatches the whiskey from Arthur's other hand and drains the last few sips.

Arthur being injured makes him feel strange. Of all of them, Arthur is always the most solid. John counts on it. It's always hard to see him relegated into a bed to recover. It doesn't help that he's insufferable when he's not allowed to ride out. Complaining day and night about going out to hunt or case a joint for a job or even go buy cigarettes.

John doesn't like it. When he was younger, and would get injured, Arthur would turn into an almighty mother hen, lecturing and comforting at the same time. Now that John's older, it's more likely that he'll give John a mouthful for being reckless and cuff him on the head before sewing him up.

John doesn't mind.

Any attention from Arthur is better than none, even if it's just him yelling at John.

Arthur's saying something and John hasn't been listening. "Huh?"

"I _said_ , have you got a smoke?" Arthur demands.

John hums an affirmative and digs the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He puts one between his lips and strikes a match to life on the bottom of his boot, holds it to the cigarette. When it's lit, he blows the smoke towards Arthur's face, chuckling when he bats it away.

He hands the lit cigarette to Arthur, cursing when the match in his other hand burns too low and comes close to his fingers. Instead of lighting another one, he puts another cigarette between his lips and rises to his knees. Leans forward and cups his hands around the cherry of Arthur's cigarette to light his own.

Arthur doesn't move at all, just meets John's eyes over the cigarettes where they meet. The smoke is the only thing separating them. With his hands cupped around their cigarettes, it takes only a moment for John's to light, but he stays close while he takes a long drag. He only sits down again to exhale the smoke upwards.

They have moments like these, every once in a while, where John feels like they're hurtling towards something at a dead gallop. He knows what they're hurtling towards. But he'll hardly let himself think it for fear of getting his hopes up.

But he thinks it anyway.

Every shared bedroll and tent, every clap on the shoulder and shared horse ride. Every time he finds some kind of repayment for helping with something in the form of cigars or whiskey or rounds in his tent. Every time they share eye rolls and glances over the fire in camp.

He's knows Arthur's still hurting over the loss of Mary. But the way he acts around John sometimes...

John's dragged back into reality by Arthur's voice. "Hm?"

"Where do you keep goin'?" Arthur asks, cocking his head at him. "I said you ought to get some sleep."

" _Me_? You're the one who got shot today." John takes a drag off his cigarette.

"Well you're the one sittin' here, mind wanderin' instead o' bein' on watch." Arthur points out.

"Okay, you ass, if you don't want me around you coulda just _said_. Christ." John gets up, crushes his cigarette under his boot.

Arthur shakes his head, grab's John's wrist. "Not what I meant, you damn fool. Just meant you look tired. That's all."

"You're too damn much for me, Arthur." John heads for his normal night watch spot. Arthur doesn't call after him. John lies to himself that he's not hurt by it.

It _is_ too much for him. These small kindnesses Arthur will offer him, backed up by his obnoxious and stubborn insistence on being alone all the time.

It confuses him.

It ain't that he feels guilty for wanting Arthur. Well, it is.

There's no ending in which John could tell Arthur how he feels and it ends well. There's no ending in which Arthur tells John he returns his feelings, starts treating him like his goddamn sweetheart. The best case would be that he gently rebuffs John and leaves it at that. John wouldn't be able to stand that ending- Arthur would treat him differently, knowing his kindnesses are interpreted differently.

The worst case would be that Arthur tells Dutch. That could end in a variety of ways, and none of them would be good.

So John doesn't entertain the idea of telling Arthur.

Tries to ignore the strange tenderness that Arthur gives him, sometimes. Most of the time he can convince himself that he prefers it when they're being mean to each other. That, at least, doesn't confuse him.

Bickering and fighting is straightforward.

Tenderly lighting cigarettes an inch from your pal's face isn't.

...

A few weeks later, when Arthur's healed up enough to go out again, he takes John fishing on the Red River.

John's got no patience for fishing, never has. It's hot outside and hardly anything but pickerel is biting and John loses any tolerance for it within the first hour.

"This is goddamn pointless. Let's just go hunt somethin'." John folds up his fishing rod and goes to sit on a rock, dangles his feet in the cool water. His boots are nearby. Copper is snuffling at them.

To his left, Arthur's focused as all get-out, chewing on a piece of long grass and staring into the water in front of him. Like always, he looks handsome when he's focusing, blue eyes and furrowed brow. It's a hot day, and his shirt is unbuttoned about halfway, showing a glimpse of his broad chest and the hair dusting it. He's all muscled forearm and tanned skin, hale and hearty and solid. Built like a damn ox, Arthur is.

It takes John a few minutes to get him to respond. Sure, he's heard John the whole time, but nobody's better (and worse) at ignoring him than Arthur is.

"What? Ain't you enjoyin' the sunshine and scenery?" Arthur demands.

John considers this, looks around. It _is_ pretty. He's always liked places with a lot of willow trees. And the sunshine reflecting off the river _is_ nice. For a minute, he gets distracted watching a doe gracefully crossing upriver from them. A fawn follows, all gangly legs and spotted back.

When he looks back at Arthur, he's surprised to see that he's folding his fishing rod, putting it back into Boadicea's saddle bag. "Nothin's bitin'. Might as well wash up, while we're here."

He tosses something to John. Out of reflex, John reaches up and plucks it from the air. It's a cake of soap. He shoots Arthur a smirk. "You sayin' I smell?"

"Sayin' you don't smell would be a damn lie, and I don't particularly enjoy lyin'," Arthur says. He's facing away from John, but John can hear the smile in his voice. "'least not to you."

John's breath wavers like he's been walloped. He recovers quick enough, once he gets his breath back. "That right there's a lie. You bullshit me all the time. Last week you told me you was just goin' to buy cigarettes, came back to camp skunked in the middle o' the night."

"Well I hadn't _planned_ on gettin' drunk. Saloon was callin' my name. Weren't a lie." Arthur flashes him a grin over his shoulder.

John just laughs at him and starts undressing. It only takes a minute, since he's not wearing a union suit under his clothes. It's too warm for that in this early autumn heat. With his clothes tossed into a pile on a rock near the horses, John heads for the river again.

Arthur's taking his sweet time undressing, folding up his clothes all neat into a pile before he follows John into the water. It's a bit cold, and John's only up to his knees. He's trying not to slip on the rocks beneath his feet when he hears Arthur approach, fast enough that he knows Arthur's about to knock him over or something.

John tenses up, expecting to be tackled into the water. Instead there's a rough smack on his backside.

And _then_ he's tackled into the water.

Sputtering and choking and laughing, John breaks the surface. There's hair in his eyes. "What the hell was _that_?!"

Arthur's laughing too, pushing his hair from his face. It's a nice sound. "Thought I'd help ya get used to the water, Marston. What else?"

"Christ. 's still cold." John's goosebumps are not from the cold.

It's from the thought of Arthur's _hand_ on his _ass_.

Valiantly, John prevents himself from sprouting a hard-on by focusing intently on washing his hair. It's on the shorter side, now. Miss Grimshaw had demanded that he cut it the week prior, saying he looked "straight out of the gutter," which was probably true. When he's done cleaning himself, he turns to toss Arthur the bar of soap.

Arthur's leaning on a rock, face turned to the sun, eyes closed. He's got his arms crossed over his broad chest, big biceps shown off. Makes John feel like he's still a damn beanpole, and a thin one at that, even though he's started filling out in the last few years. There are freckles on Arthur's nose and along his shoulders, and John is in love with him.

"Hey," John calls.

Arthur looks over lazily, raises an eyebrow at him as if to ask why John would bother him during his peaceful reverie.

"Soap. Here." He tosses it to Arthur, and he somehow catches it in one hand despite how slippery it is.

It's almost a punishment, watching the suds run down Arthur's big shoulders and wide chest as he soaps up. Though he tries to be casual about it, John catches himself full-on staring at Arthur, hands frozen in the middle of working the knots from his hair. He tears his eyes away, winces while he rakes his fingers through his hair.

Either by the grace of God or some other nefarious force, John looks over right as Arthur rinses his back. The water runs down the slope of his muscled back and over his generous backside, the curve of it just above the river. John thinks he's probably drooling.

He gets distracted when Copper trots into the water, laughing when the dog knocks him over in his excitement. "Okay, okay, relax." John scratches behind his ears, gives him the attention he'd been asking for, then gets back to his feet and looks to see what Arthur's doing.

He's grinning, probably still laughing at John getting bowled over. He's too goddamn handsome, all square jaw and round nose and bright eyes. There's water running down his face from his wet hair and laughter crinkling in his eyes. Too damn handsome.

...

A few weeks later, John takes a bullet to the gut.

It's the closest brush he's ever had with death.

It happens during a job on a stagecoach, just him and Arthur and Dutch.

There wasn't supposed to be guns on the coach, but a mean-looking feller with a handlebar mustache levels his revolver at John as soon as they stop the coach and the bullet catches him low on his left side. Then he's on the ground, looking up at the blue desert sky. It feels as if his torso has been ripped clean through, nothing left.

Distantly, he hears more gunshots and commotion, and Dutch's voice, above it all. Then it grows quiet, and Arthur's above him.

"John. Johnny. You hear me?" he's saying. " _Marston_ ,"

John coughs, but there's no blood. Somewhere in the back of his head, he knows this is a good sign. "'m awake."

"Arthur! Get him on your horse!" Dutch is yelling.

There's a hand lifting his head up, real gently, and there's panic in Arthur's eyes. "Gonna pick you up, kay?"

John just hums in answer. He can hardly keep his eyes open. There's blood soaking through his clothes. He can feel the heat of it everywhere. And, more than anything else, pain. Someone cries out, loud in the quiet of the now-calm desert. John doesn't realize it was him until he shuts his mouth.

He's loaded onto Boadicea behind Arthur. Doesn't notice the rope that Arthur ties around them both. Tries and fails not to notice how much the brutal pace Arthur sets off at hurts him. He leans his forehead on the nape of Arthur's neck and closes his eyes.

What's louder, the pounding hoofbeats or the racing of John's heartbeat in his ears?

He's fading in and out. Keeps closing his eyes.

When he opens them, all he can see is the blood he's getting all over Arthur and his horse. "'m sorry," he mumbles. It's quiet.

"Whatchu sorry for? You ain't dyin' on me, Marston." Arthur reaches back to hold John's thigh, and John barely registers it.

"Bleedin' all over your saddle," he pants.

Arthur laughs without humor. "You can buy me another, how's that sound?"

"We'll see... 'bout that," John says. His voice sounds faint, even to his own ears.

He's thinking only of Arthur, as he nears his death. Of Arthur's obliging smile and kind blue eyes, of the scar on his chin and the tilt to his smirk. The way he laughs when he's drunk and the way he sings on a long ride when he thinks no one can hear him. His stupid northern accent and the endearing lilt to all of his words, different than John's own.

The freckles on his round nose. His laugh, loud and rambunctious. The way he walks when he's had too much whiskey, all silly and sideways.

The way he looks at John over the campfire, all blue eyes and whiskey and mischief.

"Johnny? You with me?" Arthur's shouting.

John's still on Boadicea, he realizes. He must've passed out. "Yeah, Morgan, 'm still here."

"Keep talkin', Johnny," Arthur hollers. "Please,"

"Gonna kick your ass for keepin' me awake all this time," John tells him.

"You know I gotta-"

But John doesn't know what Arthur has to do, and he fades out again. When he wakes, he's being lifted onto his cot back at camp. There's a lot of yelling and commotion. All he sees his Arthur's worried face.

This is not the first time John has thought he was going to die. But it's the closest he's ever been to dying. And even through all the blood loss, he knows it.

His only thought is that he didn't even get to kiss Arthur, before he died.

...

It's days later when John wakes up.

There's a terrible pain in his side and a terrible taste in his mouth.

When he opens his eyes, it feels like there's sand under his eyelids.

His throat is as dry as the desert around him. Blindly, he reaches around for a canteen, or a cup of water. Somewhere in his blood-loss addled brain, he knows it must be nearby. He's kept vigil over Arthur or Dutch enough times to know.

A glass is pressed into his flailing hand, and he gulps down all of the water in it.

"Jesus," someone says. John can tell that it's Arthur, but his voice sounds rough, either from overuse or disuse. "Here,"

Arthur refills the glass and gives it back to John. Half of it spills down his face since he's still mostly laying down. It's not until the glass is empty that John tries to speak. "Wha's goin' on?"

Arthur's by his side, suddenly. All John can see is how exhausted he looks. There's dark circles under his eyes, and he could use a shave and a bath, probably. "Been out for almost a week, Johnny."

"Look like shit," John says. His voice is grating and rough.

Arthur huffs a half-hearted chuckle. "Yeah, I bet. Ain't done much but sit with ya these past couple days." He pauses. "Didn't uh, didn't know if you'd be wakin' up, honestly."

John raises his eyebrows. "Jesus. That bad?"

"Could still get infected, if we ain't careful," Arthur tells him. Looks pointedly at his side.

For the first time, John looks down at the source of the pain coursing through his body. He hasn't got a shirt on, and his torso is layered thick with gauze and bandages. He can smell antiseptic and Hosea's healing salves. There's a bottle of whiskey on the table near John's cot. Also for the first time, John notices that he's inside a tent, instead of the lean-to he usually sleeps in up against one of the wagons. It's Arthur's tent. The maps and photos pinned onto the canvas make it clear.

"Why 'm I in yer tent?"

Arthur shrugs one shoulder. "Hosea didn't want you outside at night when it gets all cold. Thought it'd just be easiest to bring ya back into my tent, 'stead o' settin' up a new one."

John's not sure what to think of that, if he should think of it at all. There was a time, once, when he and Arthur shared a tent all the time, when the tent was crowded by the two cots and trunks of clothing they each kept. When John would be woken up by nightmares of the noose and drag his cot over next to Arthur's and nudge him awake and fall back to sleep safe in the circle of Arthur's arms.

But that was a long time ago. Back when John was still the beanpole of a teenager he used to be. 

"'s the bullet still in there?" John asks. There could be ten bullets in his gut and he doesn't think he'd know the difference.

Arthur grimaces. "No. I... Dutch had me go 'n get a doctor in that little town north o' the Narrows, where we were. Narrowridge, 's called. We was gonna cauterize it, but..." Arthur puts a hand on his shoulder, over the spot that Hosea had had to cauterize not long ago.

"But?"

"You was losin' a lot of blood, and I didn't think it was smart to close you up like that. What if we had to get the bullet out and open y'up again?" Arthur tells him. "So I went 'n fetched the doctor. Nice feller. Didn't charge too much."

"Damn. Thanks," John says. He's getting sleepy. "Time 's it?"

Arthur shrugs. "Dunno. I... I ain't been sleepin' much."

If he weren't feeling so damn weak, John would smack Arthur's shoulder. "Christ, Arthur, why not?"

Arthur meets his eyes. Blue as ever, but awfully tired-looking. "Don't be a fool, John. Ain't becoming of ya."

John doesn't say anything to that. Understands that it means Arthur's been awake beside him for days. Wants to cuff Arthur upside the head again. But John's fading, falling asleep again quick. He's remembering riding behind Arthur on Boadicea, losing blood and thinking only that he'd never told Arthur how he feels.

But he's asleep again before he can think on it too much.

He can dream of it, though. Short, confusing dreams that hit him as the fever sets in.

In some, John grabs Arthur and yanks him close and kisses him, just like'd he'd wanted. In others, Arthur's the one kissing him, pressing him up along the wall of a building and kissing him against the bricks. Sometimes they're doing more than kissing. In some, he just wraps an arm around Arthur and puts his hand in the back pocket of his jeans while sitting around the fire at camp, seemingly happy to have and be had.

Other times, in John's fevered dreams, they fight and argue like they always do.

He wakes up a few times, usually in the middle of the night. Scrambles for water and downs it all. Talks to whoever's sitting with him. Usually it's Arthur. Once, it's a doctor.

When the fever breaks and John wakes up, Arthur isn't by his bedside anymore. Instead, Hosea's there, dozing in the chair next to John's cot.

Though John feels bad waking the old man up, he needs water. "Hosea," he rasps.

Hosea's head snaps up, and his eyes fly open. "John! You're awake. Here,"

A canteen is thrust into John's shaky hand. He sits up slightly and drinks until it's empty. The pain from sitting up makes him a little dizzy, and his head's already feeling fuzzy. He's clammy all over.

"What day 's it?"

"Been quite a while, John. Looks like the fever's finally broken, though," Hosea says, hand on his forehead to test his temperature. "I'll have to tell Arthur. Fool's been up with you more'n a week straight."

John feels his eyebrows shoot up. "Why's that?"

Hosea laughs quietly. "He's been worried, you fool. We all have. We couldn't get him to sleep until we brought the doctor out again. And even then, Bessie had to yank him out of this here chair and drag him to an open bed."

John huffs a laugh, then squeezes his eyes shut when it hurts his injured side. "I guess me wakin' up means I'm gonna live?"

"Yes, I think so. Doctor came and dealt with the infection just yesterday. Now that the fever and infection are gone, I reckon you've just gotta recover from the blood loss and trauma., Hosea tells him. "Dutch wants to go up North, where it's cooler. Thinks this hot weather isn't good for healing, and I agree with him."

"Don't think I can ride just yet," John says. "Don't think I can sit up all the way, even."

"Of course you're not riding. You'll go in one of the wagons. It's about time we get outta this desert, anyway. I'm sick of hunting pronghorn," Hosea explains. "We'll probably leave soon, long as you don't get infected again."

"That really makes me feel confident about it, Hosea." John drawls.

Hosea chuckles, puts a hand on John's arm. "I'm confident you're going to be just fine. Let me go get you some more water. And I better tell Arthur you're awake. He said he'd skin me if I didn't keep him in the loop."

John watches Hosea duck out of the tent, hears his footsteps fade in the dirt. A few minutes later, he returns. No Arthur.

John's disappointed.

...

A few days later, they head north. Dutch has them headed for a place up in the mountains north of Val Verde called Boulder Creek. Says it'll be the perfect spot for John to get better.

Dutch spends any time he has in between planning the move preaching to John about how proud he is of him for breaking the fever (as if John had any conscious hand in it), how it was a battle in his mind more than in his body. Like always, John takes all of Dutch's words with more than a few grains of salt, but he appreciates the platitudes nonetheless. At least Hosea's pragmatic about it.

John has only seen Arthur once since the fever broke.

It was from across camp, the day before they left for Boulder Creek. Arthur had been saddling up Boadicea, leaving early to scout ahead for the wagons. John was heaving himself into a sitting position for the day, looking around for the book Hosea had lent him. The flaps of Arthur's tent, which John was still in, were open wide, and John could see clear across camp.

He'd looked up when Arthur whistled for Copper, and found Arthur already looking at him. It was quick, fleeting- Arthur looked away quickly, and John was left looking at the top of his hat as he checked over Boadicea's hooves.

If he weren't hurt, John would've pushed to scout ahead with Arthur, eager to witness the sense of wonder Arthur always adopts when arriving in a new place for the first time. Instead he's relegated to the wagons, trying to keep his breathing in check while he practices palming cards for cheating at the poker tables or reads one of Dutch's philosophy books or watches the desert shrink away from the back of the wagon.

He has to keep his breathing easy because he's found that if he breathes too hard, his bandages pull, and spots appear in his vision from the pain.

The ride to the Boulder Creek highlands would take only about two days on a good horse. With the wagons, and with John recuperating, it takes four.

By nature, John is impatient. But he finds that he doesn't really mind the slow journey. There's something nice about watching the desert fade into plains, watching the plains fade into forest and hills and finally the mountains.

They come to a stop in a copse of trees by a cliff that Hosea says is known as Cedar Grove, and John can see the mountain range when Hosea helps him out of the wagon. His horse is playing pack mule, and he's not well enough to ride anyway, but if he could, John would hop on his back and sprint him to the valley of yellow flowers he glimpses in the distance. A river runs through the valley too, though it's more of a creek. Good place to wash up. John's probably due for a wash.

At the edge of the grove is Arthur, leaning up against a tree, hastily putting away his journal as he stands to help the gang unpack their things. The hat on his head is tipped low, obscuring his face. Off to the side, Boadicea is grazing, her long tail swishing back and forth.

He does not look at John when Hosea has him fetch a chair from the wagons for John to sit down on.

He does look, finally, when John flicks one of the playing cards in his sleeve at him. King of hearts. It hits him in the chest, and the look he gives John is indignant. "What the hell was that for?"

"What the hell's your problem, Morgan?" John demands.

"Only problem I got right now is that I can't lay out your sorry ass on account o' you bein hurt." Arthur snaps at him, then stalks off to continue unpacking.

It's only later, after John's eaten, that Arthur's talks to him again. Bessie, looking over John's side, calls him over, bullies him into taking John down to the creek for a much-needed wash.

Arthur complains the whole short, slow ride down to the creek, mumbling about how John's keeping him from his work. John's behind him on Boadicea, holding his waist, appreciative of Bo's smooth gait that doesn't jostle his aching side too much.

For a minute, John's mind flashes back to the last time he was behind Arthur on Bo, bleeding out all over her flank.

No. Can't think too hard on that. John shakes his head once, lets his head drop forward to lean it on Arthur's back. Squeezes his waist to let him know he's alright back there.

"You okay?" Arthur asks anyway.

John nods against Arthur's back. "Tired."

"C'mon," Arthur brings Boadicea to a stop. "I'll have you back quick, gotta go do some scouting for Dutch, anyway."

"What for?" John demands, jealousy bubbling and burning in his gut. He wouldn't be able to go anyway, but still. He's jealous.

Arthur doesn't offer him an answer, just hops off Bo and holds up his hands to help John off. Annoyed, John bats his hands away and slides off, grunts when his feet hit the ground.

The creek they've stopped near looks deep enough but doesn't look like it runs too fast, which is good, because John doesn't much feel like drowning this evening. All around them, yellow and red wildflowers sway in the gentle evening breeze, brushing against John's legs. The mountain range rises on either side of the valley, populated by evergreens and birch trees, with a light dusting of snow at the cap of each peak.

John looks back towards Cedar Grove, the overlook they've made camp at. All he can see is a dense layer of trees, and above them, a trail of smoke from their campfire. It's a nice place to stay. They'd been in Val Verde for so long, John was starting to hate the red dirt and miss green trees and clean mountain air.

Boadicea nudges John's shoulder with her big head. Laughing, John turns and runs his hand down her velvety face. When he looks back at Arthur, he finds him already looking.

Arthur's eyes go to his feet, and he clears his throat. "C'mon. Let's get you clean. Clothes off."

John pats Bo's nose once more, gives her head a gentle shove towards the meadow to send her off to graze.

Arthur's methodical about getting John's bandages off. He hardly looks at John while he helps him wash, just keeps his eyes trained on John's wound or on the mountains behind him. When he's mostly clean, Arthur offers him the cake of soap.

"Think you c'n wash your hair?" he asks.

John slowly raises his arms to his head, winces when it pulls at his sore side. Shakes his head. "Can't. Sorry."

Arthur doesn't say anything, just turns John around and begins cupping water in his hands and tossing it over his head. It's cold. John hugs himself and closes his eyes when Arthur's soapy fingers begin to work through his hair, gently tugging through the knots.

It's not the first time they've done this. John's washed Arthur's hair before, when he was sick. And there were plenty of times when John was younger and refused baths, so Arthur had to hold him down by a creek or a stream and force him to wash.

The thought of it makes John laugh.

Arthur pokes at his head. "Whatchu laughin' at?"

"'member when Susan would get on me for not washin', and she'd make you hogtie me to wash my hair?"

Behind him, a soft chuckle from Arthur resounds. He doesn't say anything else.

When his hair's clean, Arthur rewraps John in bandages and herds him back onto Bo, takes him back to camp. John tries talking to him a few times, but gives up when he realizes he's only getting one-word answers.

Back at camp, Arthur helps John settle in his tent - _their_ tent - and walks off again.

The sun's going down, and John's tired from the journey, so he doesn't go out to the campfire with the others, instead choosing to read until he falls asleep.

It's dark when he wakes up again to the sound of Arthur shouting something.

John tugs himself into a sitting position, tries to listen, but Arthur seems to be done. He can hear the general commotion outside, and someone re-starting their low song on the banjo.

A moment later, Arthur stomps into their tent.

He's drunk. John can tell right away, even in the dim lamp light.

His face is all flushed and rosy, blue eyes glassy and hard. His hat catches on the flap of the tent when he comes in, and John watches as he fails to notice that it's gone.

"'s wrong with you?" John asks, rubbing at his eyes. "Wakin' up the whole camp, hollerin' like that."

Arthur, unsteady on his feet, flops down onto his bedroll and starts tugging off his boots. "Godda- goddamn _Dutch_. Makin' me go out scoutin' some bank job when y- when _I_ needa be _here_."

"Huh?"

Arthur waves a hand at him. "Makin' me leave camp and I come back here 'n there ain't _nobody_ keepin' watch, oughta goddamn _lay somebody out_ -"

"Arthur, Jonah's on watch, he just came in and bummed a cigarette off me before I went to sleep, you drunk dumbass."

It's true. John had been reading Evelyn Miller by the light of his lamp, enjoying the soft music of the banjo and laughter drifting in from the campfire outside. Since Jonah was relatively new to the gang, he was always getting stuck with taking the night watch. He'd poked his curly head into John's tent and asked for a smoke, and John had given him one.

"No," Arthur shakes his head roughly, hands frozen in the middle of tugging his boots off. "I oughta lay somebody out cause ain't nobody out there keepin' a watch on- on _you_."

John's breath catches when Arthur looks at him, eyes too goddamn blue. "Me? W-what the hell are you talkin' 'bout?"

"I'm _talkin_ '," Arthur's boot comes off with a _whuff_ , but he doesn't move to take off the next one _._ "I'm _talkin_ ' about the goddamn fever you just _goddamn broke_ , and nobody's here makin' sure it ain't comin' back while I'm gone."

It's not what John expected. "I'm fine, Arthur. You're just drunk. Fever ain't comin back, alright?"

Arthur looks down, but not before John catches the petulant frown on his face. "You don't know that." The other boot comes off, and Arthur tosses it a little too hard to the edge of the tent. "Dutch's golden boy, Dutch's favorite son, all that bullshit 'n he doesn't even keep an eye on you while yer hurt."

"What, you're that worried 'bout me?"

" _Maybe_ ," comes Arthur's rough answer, and damn he's soaked drunk if he's talking honestly like this.

"Arthur," John says. "Look at me."

Arthur does.

"Do I look like I've got a fever? 'm sittin' here arguin' with you- was I able to do _that_ when I had a fever?" he demands.

"No," Arthur says.

"So if-"

Arthur cuts him off. "All you did when you had that fever was sweat and shiver and shout, Johnny. Awful."

This is news to John. "I was talkin' in my sleep?"

"Mhm," Arthur nods. His eyes are on the floor again. "Your pa's name. Hosea's, a few times. Mostly mine."

John feels his face heat up. "Ah... sorry."

Arthur doesn't say anything for a minute, but he does lay back on his bedroll and look up at the top of the tent. Bedroll, because John's on his cot for recovery. Because John's still in Arthur's tent. It's their tent now, he supposes.

"I can't... can't let you get sick again."

"Arthur, you ain't makin' any sense." John tells him. Then he lays back, because his side is straining and aching from sitting up.

"I know," Arthur mumbles, eyes closed. "'m sorry. Put one on at the saloon over in town."

"Yeah, I can tell," John says. "You're skunked."

Arthur hums once, like he's considering something, then presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Keep seein' it over 'n over in my head. You bleedin' out everywhere. Screamin' in your sleep. All pale and feverish. Thought gettin' drunk would help, but then I... I get back here 'n get all pissed off."

John's chest feels funny.

Hope, bright and traitorous, bubbling up.

"Arthur..." He doesn't know what to say, not really. Not when Arthur's being more honest and vulnerable than John's seen in a long, long time.

So John hoists himself off of the cot. Arthur's drunk enough that he either doesn't hear or doesn't care that John's getting up. It takes him a minute, but he sets up his own bedroll next to Arthur's, tugs his blankets off of the cot.

When he begins lowering himself to the ground, Arthur realizes what he's doing, and then there's a pair of hands supporting him around his waist, helping him lay down.

John drapes his blanket over himself and tosses some of it over Arthur. Arthur's looking at him.

"What're you doin'?" Arthur asks. He's laying on his side, and one of his hands has lingered, resting on John's stomach.

John's laying on his back, and he looks over at Arthur. "'m sleepin' down here with you so your drunk ass can 'keep a watch on me' or whatever."

Arthur's quiet for a minute. "Hm. Well, alright then."

"Alright then." John echoes.

The hand on John's stomach continues resting there.

Arthur's snoring in just a few minutes, but it takes John much longer to fall asleep.

...

The next few days are... odd.

Arthur's always around, in their tent or outside it and John's always just catching him looking away.

And then, a few days later, when John can saunter around camp again, he catches Arthur on his way out hunting by the creek and plucks the lit cigarette from his mouth. Smiles when Arthur cuffs him on the head. Arthur asks him to accompany him.

They spot fireflies, for the first time since John was young, and he laughs with excitement and Arthur laughs along with him, looking with wonder at the little yellow lights drifting through the air on the valley.

And just like that, things are normal again.

Except they aren't, because John's all twisted up inside about Arthur's drunken ramblings about how he 'can't let' John get sick again, doesn't want him to be hurt, hated seeing John sick and suffering from the fever brought on by the infection.

And he's horribly embarrassed that he was talking in his sleep. Talking about _Arthur_.

John tries his best to ignore it. It isn't that hard- he's slowly starting to be able to work around camp again, so the chores start getting piled on his lap. 

The wound on his side is just about healed, and he's back to riding, albeit slowly, and can mostly wash himself and change his own bandages on his own. More often than not, however, Arthur will give him a hand with it, deft, calloused fingers brushing John's waist as he rewraps his bandages or dragging along his neck as he tugs them through the knots in John's hair. 

Still, he's not quite well enough to be invited along to the bank job that Dutch and Arthur and the boys go and pull back in New Mexico, out by Val Verde where Arthur got shot so long ago. 

They come back with heavy saddlebags and flushed cheeks, wildness in their eyes, and John hears them riding in from a long way off. He's getting dressed, hair still wet from washing up, and wanders out to greet them while he buttons his shirt.

John partakes in the congratulating, and a bit of the drinking, does a few shots with Jonah and takes a few extra swigs of whiskey. 

"Just like I planned, easy as pie." Dutch tells John, when he asks about the job. "Hosea and I are gonna head to town, hand out some of the take. Arthur, will you be joining us?" 

John looks for Arthur, expecting to hear his honey-smooth voice give an indulgent answer. But he's not there. Boadicea isn't either. "Guess not. I'll go look for him." 

"Ride easy, don't hurt that side, John." Dutch calls over his shoulder as he and Hosea mount up. 

John knows where Arthur's gone. Before he leaves, he grabs a pack of smokes and his jacket. It's not quite cold enough for it, but he wants to wear it anyway. The jacket is new, this week has been his first time really wearing it. 

A few months ago, in New Mexico, John had been admiring it from the street, through the window of the store. The price tag was attached to the mannequin: too much. But then a week later, John had woken up to find a package wrapped in paper at the foot of his bedroll. A small card had the words "Happy Birthday" in Arthur's neat handwriting. 

Carefully, John tugs the new coat on. Today's the first day he isn't wearing any bandages at all. He feels oddly exposed, even with clothes on. 

The ride down to the creek takes only a few minutes. It's dark out, but John and his horse do just fine getting there by the light of the moon. It's not quite full. A swift breeze blows through, and John goes to hold his hat on his head, realizes he isn't wearing it. John laughs at himself. Maybe he's tipsier than he thought.

He finds Arthur exactly where he thought he would: by the creek, with the fireflies. 

And then knows he's not tipsier than he thought, maybe he ain't drunk at all, because he's suddenly nervous.

Arthur's sitting on the ground, leaning on a felled tree, back to John. But he knows John's there, that's for sure. John's never been able to get the drop on him, even just to scare him. A trail of smoke is drifting up from the cigarette in his hand. He's still wearing that long duster, the one he likes to wear sometimes when they go out robbing.

There's something in his posture that clues John in as to why he didn't want to go out drinking with Hosea and the boys. 

For some reason, despite the successful job, he's in a bad mood. 

John nudges his horse to go graze by Boadicea and walks over to Arthur, plops himself down next to him. Doesn't say anything, just knocks his boot against Arthur's once in greeting. 

Arthur doesn't look at him.

John doesn't ask what's wrong. If Arthur wants to tell him, he will. 

Across the creek, the fireflies drift through the air, illuminating. The gentle babble of the creek is interrupted by an owl, hooting somewhere overhead. In the air, there's the smell of tobacco and grass. And Arthur. 

Arthur's the first one to move, tossing his spent cigarette to the side. Crushes it with his boot. 

John digs his pack of smokes out from his pocket and searches for a match, looks up when he hears one strike. Arthur's hands, one holding the match and the other shielding it from the breeze, offering the flame to John. With the cigarette between his lips, John leans forward, into the light of the match. Lights the cigarette. 

The cherry, flaring with John's intake of breath. The match, shook out and tossed with the spent cigarette by Arthur's feet. 

The hand in John's face, plucking the newly lit cigarette from his mouth and placing it into Arthur's. 

When John looks over at Arthur, the bastard's got the smallest of smirks on his face, but he's not looking at John. His blue eyes are trained on the fireflies. There's an angry red streak on his cheekbone that looks like a bullet graze. 

Maybe it's the fact that he almost died just a few weeks ago. Maybe it's the fact that _Arthur_ could've been killed just earlier tonight. Maybe it's the whiskey, maybe he really is drunk.

Whatever it is, John's feeling rash. Wishing he'd brought a flask for some more liquid courage.

He chews on the idea for a few minutes. Passes the cigarette back and forth with Arthur. Watches the calming light of the fireflies and their irregular illumination patterns. 

They go through three cigarettes in total silence. Each time John gets it, it's moist from Arthur's lips. 

When they light the fourth, John makes up his mind. 

Arthur blows smoke towards his face, and it drifts between them like a cloud. John leans over. 

Somehow, Arthur seems to know what John's thinking. He's looking at John, blue eyes dark in the moonlight. 

John kisses him, in the silence and the smoke and the _want_ that's been burning in him for ages. 

And Arthur kisses him back. Slow at first, almost lazily. They're leaning into each other, but neither has reached for the other just yet. Arthur tastes like tobacco and gin. John's sure he tastes like Jonah's cheap whiskey. 

And then the cigarette burns down to Arthur's fingers, and he mutters "shit," and pulls away from John, the first word either of them have said since John arrived. 

He crushes the cigarette under his boot, tosses it away with the others. 

John watches, makes a surprised noise when Arthur turns to him, puts a hand on his face, and kisses him. Pushes him down into the grass so Arthur's laying on top of him, a knee between John's. When he leans in to kiss him again, Arthur's hat falls off, knocks John's face on the way. Arthur huffs a small laugh, and then presses his lips against John's again. 

It's not exactly a surprise, anymore, that Arthur's kissing him back. He'd suspected, after Arthur drunkenly voiced his anxieties, that his foolish hopes were correct. 

But somehow John still feels shocked, even as Arthur's tongue licks into his mouth and his beard scrapes his skin. He reaches up, winds his fingers in Arthur's hair, tugs a bit at the soft strands. Arthur groans into John's mouth, and it's the best thing John's ever tasted in his whole damn life. Arthur's got one hand on John's face, the other is on the ground, holding him up slightly on his forearm.

John tugs him down all the way, lets out a grunt at Arthur's full weight on top of him. He doesn't really mind, though. Now he can feel Arthur's cock, hot and hard on his hip, even through their trousers. Arthur pulls away, buries his face in John's neck. Mouths at the sensitive skin there.

"Good fuckin' Christ, Arthur." John pants. 

Suddenly, Arthur pulls back. Looks at John. "Is this- are you- you sure about this, John?" 

"Damn sure," John nods. "I been wantin' this - _you -_ for a long time, Arthur." He goes to kiss Arthur again, but Arthur moves his head to the side at the last minute.

He's not looking at John. "You _don't_ want this, John. You're- you're still young, you could have a wife 'n-"

"Don't say that to me. I ain't never wanted any of that." John sucks in a shaky breath. "I've only ever wanted _you_."

Arthur just about gasps, shuts his eyes and presses his forehead to John's. "Christ, John. Can't hit me with shit like that."

"Why not? 's true." John shrugs. It's only a mildly successful shrug, since Arthur's weighing his shoulders down. 

It takes Arthur a minute to answer. John waits, somewhat impatiently. "I just... don't want you to regret anythin', or..."

"What, we gonna do something I might regret?" John asks, grinning wide. He cants his hips up, into Arthur's. "What's that gonna include?" 

"What's it... I reckon it only includes what you want, Johnny," Arthur says. His mood's shifting, from uncertainness back to the heady, steamy one it had been when they were kissing. 

John cocks his head. "Hm. Reckon I want you to fuck me, Arthur. 's that somethin' you want?" 

The breath that Arthur lets out is unsteady. "Yeah. Christ, yeah." 

Then he kisses John with a renewed urgency, rough with teeth and his sandpaper beard. John grabs for Arthur's waist, finds his way blocked by Arthur's duster. He tugs at the offending garment, trying to get his hands under it to pull it off. It takes a minute, but Arthur gets the message, rising to his knees to yank off the jacket as well as his suspenders, leaving him in his shirt. 

John reaches for the shirt, ready to rip all the buttons off if it means Arthur will get naked quicker. But Arthur stands, whistling for Bo.

Suddenly, John's horribly afraid he's changed his mind. Leaving, off to tell the gang of John's hilarious crush. John sits up on his elbows, still heaving deep breaths from kissing.

"Christ, what's that face for?" Arthur asks. He's unbuttoning his shirt himself. "I ain't fuckin' you with nothin', we need some stuff from my saddlebags." 

"Oh." John lets out a relieved breath. "Thought you was leavin'." 

Arthur gives him a soft smile. "Nope. Not unless you want me to."

"Aw, shut up." 

Bo trots over, and Arthur pats her rump before grabbing a tin of something from his saddlebag, as well as his bedroll and tent that he uses when he's on the trail. When he's got it, he gives her a soft smack, sends her back to grazing a ways off with John's horse. He turns back to John, tossing him the tin. 

John catches it, puts it beside him. He sits up to take off his jacket, but finds his hands stopped in their tracks. It's Arthur, looking sheepish but determined. "Lemme do it." 

John audibly gulps. Watches as Arthur's hands carefully remove his jacket and drape it over the felled tree beside them, as they push his suspenders off his shoulders and then undo the buttons on his shirt. If John didn't know any better, he'd say the way that Arthur's hands skate up and down his now-bare torso is... reverent, almost. 

When his hands reach the big, pink, healing wound on his side, Arthur ducks down and presses a kiss to John's skin there. John's breath catches, and he reaches for Arthur's face, tugs him up to kiss him again. 

This kiss is a little rougher than the others, more urgent. Their noses brush, once, twice, and John laughs softly and tilts his head more. Arthur's grinning into his mouth, big hands on John's waist, thumbs brushing back and forth. John's hands, in Arthur's hair, dark in the moonlight, combing his fingers through the soft strands. The ghost of tobacco, lingering on Arthur's tongue, enough that John can still taste it.

They're laying mostly side by side, but John can feel the solid heat of Arthur's chest creeping towards him. He brings his hand down from Arthur's hair, winds his way down Arthur's chest, feeling the light dusting of hair that goes all the way down to his belly, just a tad darker than the hair on his head. John's as hard as ever, and he palms Arthur's cock over his trousers, finds that Arthur's still hard too.

"C'mon," John murmurs against Arthur's lips. "Get to work, cowboy." 

Arthur hums in response, separating himself from John to reach for the bedroll he retrieved. He lays it out next to where John's lounging on the grass and motions for John to get on it, presumably to be more comfortable. It's sweet, almost. Makes John smile. 

Then he drops to his knees again, reaches for John's boots and pulls them off, then undoes his belt and tugs at his pants. John shimmies out of them, only a little self conscious when his achingly hard dick smacks quietly on his hip once it's free of his drawers. 

Arthur just looks at him for a minute, long enough that John feels his cheeks growing hot with embarrassment. "Yer killin' me here, Arthur." 

And then Arthur grins, all sharp edges and dark blue eyes laden with mischief. In one swift movement, he grabs two handfuls of John's hips and yanks him closer. John yelps in surprise, and then chokes on a breath when Arthur ducks his head, takes John's cock almost all the way into his mouth. 

John's had his dick sucked, sure. And he's thought about Arthur sucking his dick more than a few times, sure (many times, maybe). 

But really, truly seeing Arthur's head bobbing up and down slowly over John's cock almost makes him come right then and there. 

John's never thought about Arthur sucking someone _else's_ dick, but the way he's working John over with his mouth and one hand on the base of his cock tells John that Arthur is no stranger to sucking cock, which is another thing that almost sends him right over the edge. When John can breathe, he works his hand into Arthur's hair again, guides his head up and down over his dick. The warm, wet heat of Arthur's mouth feels like sin, and the way Arthur looks up at him through his lashes in the moonlight looks like absolution. 

When Arthur pulls off and works his hand over John's dick, John gets a good look at him, and wishes, desperately, that he had some kind of talent with a paintbrush so he could paint Arthur looking like this. His face is flushed, and his eyes are dark and a little watery. The moonlight reflects off of his spit-shining lips, a little swollen from both kissing and sucking John's cock like he's being paid to do it. His hair's ridiculous, all messy from John's fingers working through it. He looks better like this than John ever could've imagined.

And it's too much, suddenly, when Arthur sinks down on his cock again, enough that he's about to finish and he can't let it end so soon. He tugs at Arthur's hair. "Quit- I'm-" 

Arthur's off, quick, concern in his eyes. "You alright?" 

John nods. "Yeah, 'course, just- don't wanna finish too quick." 

"'s that a compliment?" Arthur's grinning, sitting up and wiping spit from his lips with the back of his hand. His voice sounds rough.

"Never," John pants, and he wants it to sound sarcastic, but he feels like the wind's been knocked out of him. 

"C'mere," Arthur breathes, leaning over John to kiss him again. 

Somewhere in the valley, that owl hoots again. The creek babbles along. Most of the fireflies are gone, off to go do whatever it is they do after the twilight hour has ended. Up the creek, a stag wanders over to drink. John's horse, along with Boadicea, are grazing contentedly, tails swishing through the patches of wildflowers. 

Back at the creek, it's just Arthur and John. John tugs at Arthur's head, makes him bare his neck, and sucks a mark into it that will only just be able to be hidden under his collar. Sinks his teeth in to make sure it'll last.

John doesn't know if _this_ will last, but that mark on Arthur's neck will stick around for at least a week, more if he keeps sucking and biting at it. But John's impatient by nature, and he fumbles blindly for the tin that Arthur grabbed, rooting around for it in the grass beside him. 

When he finds it, he shoves it into Arthur's hands, eager. 

"You gon' tell me if I hurt you?" Arthur asks as he takes off the lid of the tin. It looks like hair pomade, or it was, and Arthur replaced it with... whatever this is. John watches as Arthur drags two fingers through it, and spreads it around, then looks back up at John expectantly. "Hm?"

"Only if you fuckin' get on with it, I'm wastin' away over here," John snaps. 

Arthur gives him that smirk again, all blue eyes and sharp corners. "Patience, darlin'." 

And John just about gasps at the endearment, and then really gasps when Arthur yanks his hips close again, and the pad of his middle finger rubs at John's hole. John's suddenly viscerally grateful that he'd washed up earlier. And then he can hardly think at all, except for Arthur's finger sliding inside him.

Arthur works him open at a torturously slow pace, mostly ignoring John urging him to go quicker, asking after John's injured side and making sure he's alright enough that John would cuff him upside the head, if it weren't for his thick, deft fingers finding the exact spot that has him almost seeing stars. 

John squirms, grabs at Arthur's bicep. "C'mon, 'm ready, just-" 

And suddenly Arthur's leaning over him, kissing him hard. John kisses back, shivering when Arthur works another finger inside him. The stretch is a lot, it's always a lot, but damn if John ain't hard as a goddamn rock underneath Arthur. 

After what feels like forever, Arthur pulls his fingers out, sitting up and wiping them in the grass. Funny, that John had forgotten that Arthur's still got his trousers on. But he can see the tent he's pitching in them even in the dim moonlight. He stands, pulls off each of his boots and then goes for his belt. For some reason, the sight of Arthur undoing his belt is unreasonably attractive to John. As is the sight of him stepping out of his trousers and drawers, hard cock on display. It's big, and John's glad Arthur took a while opening him up. But still, he's impatient as ever.

"Take your time, Morgan, will ya?" John drawls, voice heavy with sarcasm.

Arthur doesn't take the bait, looking at John seriously as he kneels down beside him again, the tin of pomade in his hand. "You done this before?" 

"Yessir," John nods. "Been a little while, not since New Mexico at least." 

"New Mexico," Arthur repeats, and he's frowning slightly. 

For a second, John's confused, and is prepared to call Arthur on it, but then realization dawns on him, and a smug grin spreads over his face. 

Arthur's _jealous_. 

Jealous, presumably because someone else fucked John in New Mexico. Because it wasn't Arthur who got to do it. 

"Arthur Morgan, you jealous?" John purrs, poking at Arthur's bare side with his foot. 

Arthur shakes his head, but his face is turning pink. Then he looks back up at John, eyes dark, and surges forward, kisses him hard. He's gone quickly, reopening the tin and slicking up his cock.

John watches as Arthur positions himself over him, tugging John's legs over his, bracing his arms on either side of John's head. John's breathing sounds louder than the creek somehow, chest heaving. Carefully as ever, Arthur reaches down, and John feels the blunt head of his cock against his hole. He gasps at the stretch, closes his eyes and grabs at Arthur's waist.

It's a lot. Arthur pushes in slowly, hovering over John, breath warm on his skin. When he bottoms out, hips pressing against John's ass, he waits, and John appreciates the moment he gets to adjust to how full he feels. John digs his fingers into Arthur's skin, breathes through the adjustment.

"Okay," he pants. "Okay." 

Arthur kisses him again, and John gasps when he pulls out almost all the way and slams back in. The dull sound of his hips smacking against John's ass seems loud in their little bubble. Arthur builds up a slow rhythm, one that has John letting out little moans that are less than dignified. 

"Y'alright?" Arthur murmurs. 

"Yeah, I'm- fuck-" John opens his eyes, reaches up to pull Arthur's face towards him and kiss him again. He's out of breath, rocking back and forth a bit each time Arthur pounds into him. "Fuckin'- _Jesus_." 

Arthur's mouth is on his neck again. "Nah, darlin', just call me Arthur." 

And John starts to laugh, but he's interrupted when Arthur's cock hits that spot _right there_ , and he lets out a hoarse shout. Arthur does it again, hips snapping against John's, balls slapping against his ass, until he's made a mess of John, drawing moans out of him with every thrust. 

"Holy _shit_ -" John gasps, " _Arthur_ -" 

Arthur leans forward, until John's legs are high above him and he feels the stretch in his muscles, and their chests are almost pressed together. John's eyes are close, but he opens them when Arthur's hand wraps around his cock, and that familiar heat begins to pool in his gut. 

"Close, Arthur," John breathes. 

Arthur kisses him, hot and fast. "I know. C'mon, I gotcha." 

He works John over, and John comes a moment later, clenching around Arthur's cock, coming hard all over his stomach and Arthur's hand. It's the hardest he's come in recent memory. 

Arthur comes too, a moment later, snapping his hips against John's ass and burying his cock deep inside. The breathy moan he lets out makes John's softening cock twitch valiantly. 

Arthur pulls out and lowers John's legs, all but collapses on top of him. John's got no idea how long they lay like that, chests heaving, covered in sweat and come. He combs a hand through Arthur's sweaty hair. 

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, John," Arthur pants.

"Don't think I'll be ridin' for another few days," John says, makes himself laugh at the absurdness of it. Arthur chuckles too, and John feels him press a kiss to his shoulder.

"Me, or your horse?" Arthur asks, and John can hear the smile in his voice, the way he's almost about to laugh. He reaches around and smacks Arthur's ass in response.

When he fees Arthur's come beginning to slide from his hole, John pushes at Arthur's solid weight. "Mm, let's wash, c'mon." 

Arthur crawls off of him and then helps him up, swipes a hand through the come on John's chest and laughs. Then he wades into the creek, looking like a marble statue in the moonlight. 

They wash up, losing track of time kissing and running their hands over one another. John feels drunk, but it ain't the whiskey he had earlier. Christ, that feels so long ago. But he's drunk on Arthur, now, he's sure. 

"You mean that earlier?" Arthur asks, startling John a bit. He's carding through the knots in John's wet hair. "'bout you wantin' this for a while?" 

John feels his cheeks heat, and he turns to face Arthur. Arthur's hands settle on his waist. "I..." John's never been a good liar. Honest to a fault. "Yeah. Been wantin' you for a long time." 

"This ain't..." Arthur breaks off and sighs, presses his forehead to John's. "This ain't gonna be easy, y'know." And it's enough of an answer that John doesn't even have to ask if Arthur feels the same way. 

"Nothin' with you is ever easy, Morgan."

They dry off with Arthur's shirt, and put up the tent and set up the bedroll with some blankets to sleep on. No fire, though. John puts on drawers and his shirt and slots himself into Arthur's side, feeling content. 

Arthur pulls the blanket over them both and kisses John again. It takes John hardly any time at all to fall asleep. 

In the morning, the sun wakes them both. They're tangled up under the blanket, John half on top of Arthur. John groans when Arthur gets up, not wanting to start his day, but Arthur just tucks the blanket over him and slips out of the tent.

When John wakes again, he finds Arthur's made a fire and already put the coffee on. He's dressed again, and he offers John a coffee with one hand and reaches for him with the other. John takes the coffee, grinning sleepily as he's pulled close.

Arthur's got one hand on John's waist and the other on his injured side. "You alright? Didn't hurt you none, right?" 

"What, have you gone soft, Morgan?" John asks, a smile spreading over his face slowly. "Worryin' about me like this? 

Arthur ducks his head, and his hat blocks John from seeing his blush. "Would that be so bad?"

"Not if it means you'll keep on bein' nice to me like this."

"Aw, quit," Arthur says, but John can see him smiling. "We oughtta get back to camp." 

"Mhm." 

John dresses, Arthur breaks camp, and they mount up. Before they ride for camp, Arthur rides up right alongside him, pulls him in by the collar of his coat, and kisses him. Then he pulls back and digs his heels in, and he and Boadicea take off like a shot. 

John knows a race when he sees one. He digs his heels into his own horse, chases after Arthur and Bo. 

Arthur wins the race. But back at camp, when they sit by the fire for breakfast, Arthur sticks his hand in the back pocket of John's pants while they eat, and John's the one who really wins, in the end.

**Author's Note:**

> don't forget comments/kudos if you liked it!


End file.
